


Close Quarters

by randomhorse



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, a bit angsty, also for some reason this is a lot about sleeping, and a bit fluffy, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomhorse/pseuds/randomhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire attempts a fresh start and is blissfully unaware of his new flatmate’s revolutionary activities. But then, he’s bound to find out sooner or later. Because it’s Paris, 2005, and cars are burning in the streets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Flat

„No fuss“ is all it says. Grantaire clicks on APARTMENT DESCRIPTION again, half-expecting a dropdown menu or at least pictures or anything, really, but no, that’s all there is. “No fuss” and blinking ads. He smiles. It’s one of those sites for shared flats. Most advertisers have gone into detail about hobbies and jobs and dietary preferences and how they like to spend their evenings and how anyone moving in is required to be sociable and Grantaire is already at the end of his tether. “No fuss” is exactly the thing he’s looking for and that’s what he writes in the mail to the landlord.

***

Two days later they meet up for Grantaire to see the flat, there really was not a lot of fuss about it. Grantaire reckons that there are only few contestants, given that there were no pictures on the website, let alone any kind of personal information about the landlord. A hell of a blind date this is, and Grantaire smiles to himself, because blind dates, that’s something he used to handle easily.

Enjolras, the potential flatmate, has a bit of a James Dean thing going on, Grantaire notices, and although he generally has nothing against that, James Dean was a pretty fellow after all, it makes him a little uneasy that this guy seems to go for appearance. What with the red leather jacket and all. They shake hands and Enjolras shows him up the narrow stairs to the flat and what’s to say, it’s beautiful. Well, nothing to be ashamed of, at least. Grantaire half expected some shit hole, dark and moist, why else wouldn’t there be any pictures on the site, but this is the exact opposite, walls white, sloped, with skylights in them, a tiny kitchen, tiled bathroom, and a balcony that can be reached through one of the bedrooms.

“It’s perfect”, Grantaire says and Enjolras shrugs.

“It’s good enough.” 

Grantaire peeks around the place, there is hardly anything in it except for a mattress in the balcony room and a few cardboard boxes, but as far as he can tell, those are empty too.

“Aren’t you living here already?” he asks and Enjolras shrugs again.

“Nah, I’ve only been crashing here for a bit. I’ll move my stuff next week though.”

They’re standing in the bigger room, the one with the door to the balcony, hands in pockets, and neither really seems to know how to do small talk. No fuss, Grantaire remembers and reckons that Enjolras probably likes it quiet.

“You’d get the other room”, Enjolras says after a bit. The other room’s maybe a tiny bit smaller, but it has the bigger skylight and is flooded with sunlight at this time of day, and that far into autumn that’s something.

“It’s perfect”, Grantaire says. 

***

He moves his stuff the week after that, after he received an awkward phone call from Enjolras. “You can have it if you want”, he says, and of course Grantaire wants it, he didn’t really believe he’d get it. He doesn’t ask if there were other contestants but he thinks there probably weren’t. Or Enjolras just likes it awkward.

He moves his stuff alone, it’s barely enough to fit into two boxes. The bed he carries up the stairs in parts, and the mattress is a bit of a logistical problem, but he manages. Enjolras is not there when he sorts his stuff in; he finds the key under the doormat. Bit of a small town boy, Enjolras, Grantaire thinks. He puts his records in one corner and his paint in the other, clothes stay in the duffel bag for now, and his laptop sits just right on a cardboard box next to his bed. He considers calling someone for a housewarming but then “No fuss” still seems like a good rule to live by and he’s tired and he doesn’t really know who he wants around and so he just watches an episode of something, probably the Simpsons, and goes to sleep.

In the morning he wakes up to find that there’s no coffee machine in the kitchen, but a sleeping Enjolras in the other bedroom. His door is ajar and he’s half-dressed, he looks like he stumbled in just a few hours ago and literally fell asleep face ahead on top of his blanket. Looking for instant coffee or tea or anything, really, through the kitchen drawers, Grantaire wonders what kind of drug his new flatmate gets his kicks from. He finds an unopened bottle of liquor in the cupboard under the sink and makes a mental promise to leave it there, in its current unopened state. Things are going to get better in this bright new flat that has morning sun shining through the stained kitchen windows, painting spots and swirls on the tiled floor.

The shower spits and coughs but eventually heats up decently. Grantaire steps into the bathtub – a bathtub with paw-shaped feet, no less – and lets the water run over his face. There is no shower curtain and Grantaire considers buying one this afternoon but for now he’s only happy there’s no damp fabric clinging to his legs. He shaves and rubs his hair dry and, wearing the towel around his waist, wanders through the hallway to his room. 

He sits on the edge of his bed for a bit, just rejoicing in the fact that this is a room and it is his, and it’s not crammed with stuff yet, it’s white and pure and simple. He listens carefully but there a no signs of a living flatmate next door, just the chatter of voices from the yard behind the house. Grantaire gets up awkwardly and gets dressed, wanders through the hallway to the kitchen and back, pointlessly, catching a glimpse of his flatmate stretched out on his mattress as he walks back to his room.

It’s not boredom, Grantaire would know that feeling. There’s nothing itching right under his skin, and he’s not quite used to that anymore. He could go out, buy some stuff for the flat, some groceries, enjoy the fact that he’s not totally broke at the moment, or he could paint, or check his mails or do something but all that requires accepting the possibility that something might go wrong, and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to face that yet. Better just sit here, hands clasped to the fresh linen of his bed, breathing quietly to not disrupt this moment of tranquility. 

It’s the burning need for coffee that gets him up eventually. A freshly brewed latte clasped in his hands, walking down the street in the feeble autumn sun, he feels almost enthusiastic. He takes two stops to the mall and, remembering how he woke up to a chilly room that morning, buys a second blanket and a pillow shaped like a banana that’s ridiculously cheap on sale, and cereal and milk and instant coffee – he already cringes at the thought of that, but he can’t afford a coffee machine – and a pack of tobacco, and when he passes the Salvation Army he impulsively buys a standard lamp that’s possibly older than he is, with a floral pattern shade and a foot so heavy that he’s not quite sure how he’s supposed to get it up the stairs, but after all, he managed the mattress on his own, and he has a flatmate now, albeit a comatose one. 

It’s getting dark again when he gets back to the flat, and his fingers are freezing. He fumbles with his keys, fingers numb, and when he opens the door there is the smell of coffee and the sound of voices from the kitchen.

“I’m home..?” Grantaire says awkwardly, not too loudly, so it’s entirely possible that they haven’t heard him when he gets no answer. He dumps his stuff in his room, sets the lamp right next to his bed, and just stands there for a second, arms hanging at his sides, wondering what to do. He could go and meet them, his flatmate, properly now, and his friend, or acquaintance, or date, or he could just stay here, cuddle up in both his blankets and watch an episode of Top Gear. 

The floorboards shift awkwardly under his feet as Grantaire makes his way through the hallway to the kitchen. He pops his head through the door to find Enjolras sitting there, all groomed and dressed and not looking remotely destroyed by whatever he was up to last night, with a tall, ruggedly blonde fellow, and a coffee machine, more like a coffee monster between them, huge and silver, with puffs of steam shooting from tiny hoses – it’s glorious.

“You got a coffee machine”, Grantaire says sheepishly and Enjolras, looking up and seeing him in the doorframe gives him a grin.

“This is not a coffee machine, this is a fucking coffee engine!” the other guy says while Enjolras nods towards him and throws their names into the room, “Combeferre, Grantaire, meet the flatmate, meet the second in command.” Second in command, Grantaire thinks, so not a date, then, or maybe an unconventional one.

***

Enjolras keeps that odd schedule of his, going out late to god knows where, coming back in the morning, sleeping until noon and so forth. Grantaire hardly ever sees him awake, but he knows he sleeps like a baby, sprawled on his belly, hands curled into fists, mouth slightly ajar, always half-dressed, always on top of the blanket. Grantaire still shivers at night under his covers. 

His room starts to look more like him in the course of the next weeks, with his clothes scattered about, half-finished paintings leaning to the wall, and the smell of fresh paint hanging in the air from when Grantaire impulsively painted a giant, larger-than-life R on the only not-sloped wall of his room. The red paint was a little too runny and didn’t dry for some time, he still finds splatters of it on his shoes and his backpack and his clothes. 

When he stepped back from his work he found Enjolras standing right behind him in the doorframe.

“That’s cool”, he said. “What does it mean?”

Grantaire shrugged the question off with a mumbled “dunno”, feeling annoyed all of a sudden. He can’t really tell why, but it also doesn’t bother him much. He’s got more important things to worry about. There’s the prospect of a job, an actual non-waiter-job at an auctioneers. He tells Enjolras when they meet at the coffee machine – they rarely bump into each other anywhere else, although the flat is tiny – and through the sound of milk being streamed and coffee beans being ground up that is rather like that of an engine, Combferre was right, Enjolras tells him to “go get it, man”. He’s a nice guy, Enjolras, Grantaire thinks, though he isn’t quite sure he knows him at all. 

***

The job’s a good one, best he’s ever had, although he’s required to dress up for it a bit, but the income’s good and the rent is not a point of constant worry anymore. The routine of it does him good, too, and there are nice people working there, most of them a bit younger than he is but also less bitter and more ambitious. 

Jehan is one of them, a quiet guy with a tendency to miss-match floral patterns, it makes Grantaire smile. They go for a coffee after work and talk, and Grantaire notices how he’s been starved for that, just talking, plain and simple, no debates, no counselling, no small talk, just an honest to god conversation. Jehan is quite the type for that, smart and well-read, with absolutely no sense for sarcasm, so Grantaire has to step it down a bit. But that doesn’t matter; on the contrary. With Jehan, he finds himself laughing wholeheartedly for the first time in a very, very long time.

Grantaire finds that with Jehan, he’s not the cynic he used to be. His addictions are keeping within limits, he rarely craves anything anymore. He started running in the morning and notices how he needs the rush of oxygen to his body to get going for the day, and he started watching that one show regularly, and he’s nothing without his art and then there’s this absolutely glorious coffee, bitter and black as his soul, from Enjolras’ coffee machine, and the occasional cigarette, but that’s it really. Nothing to worry him, or his mother, or his therapist. If he told them, that is. 

It’s getting better, that’s what it is. Meanwhile, things with Enjolras are getting worse. The “no fuss” part of their flatmate agreement seems to only apply to Grantaire, because when Enjolras needs something done, that has absolute priority. When he said he’d move is stuff next week, what he actually meant was that he would start moving his stuff that week and not stop until much, much later. So even weeks after he moved in, Grantaire still comes home to a strange place because suddenly, there’d be a red sofa in the tiny hallway or a cube shaped TV set in the kitchen, and there’s a shower curtain in the bathroom now that clings to Grantaire’s legs. All that happens without a word from Enjolras. And then there are sheer mountains of boxes, all of which disappear into Enjolras’ room. Grantaire wonders how he does it, the sofa at least looks pretty massive, but then, Enjolras has his little helpers, Combferre, who often drops by, or one of the other students who all look and sound alike and swarm around him like moths around a light bulb.

Grantaire is not annoyed, not really. He’d just like Enjolras to settle down for a change. Just to catch a breath for a minute. But that doesn’t seem to be a thing his flatmate does. When he’s home, he’s either sleeping or all over the place, and if anything is annoying it’s how he keeps his charm at that level of speed. Any other person Grantaire would have called out on their behaviour, but Enjolras has this way of going puppy eyed rebellious teenager mode when being scorned, that goes so well with his James Dean attitude, so Grantaire’s criticism isn’t really going anywhere. He is a good guy, Enjolras, Grantaire thinks. He’s just a lot of work.

***

But then there’s that time Enjolras comes home with Combeferre and three guys in tow that Grantaire has never seen before, they just stumble into his room carrying boxes and oddly shaped bags while Grantaire is sitting in bed in boxers and a shirt, listening to music and sketching.

“Hey Grantaire” Enjolras says, “We need your mural.”

“What?” Grantaire gets up and puts down his sketch and adjusts his boxers all at once and manages to knock his headphones down in the process. 

“Your mural, we thought we’d borrow it for a bit”, says Combeferre with a gesture to the red R on Grantaire’s bedroom wall. 

“What the fuck…”, Grantaire manages to say before one of the guys shoves a camera in his face.

“Pictures.” Grantaire now spots a tripod, too, and one of those reflector things.

“Can we just use your room for half an hour, Grantaire”, Enjolras says. “Please. It won’t take longer.”

“Why the fuck do you need my room for that?”, asks Grantaire, and for the first time in weeks he feels something tensing up inside of him, it starts as a tickle in his wrists and he knows it’s going to take over limb by limb. All the little things he’s been putting up with in the past weeks for the sake of tranquility are boiling up now. Fuck tranquility. He’s getting ushered out of his own room by two guys he’s never seen and they won’t even explain the reason for their ambush.

“You can draw… or whatever it is you’re doing… in my room”, Enjolras says. “We just need one or two quick snapshots for the editorial, with your mural… thing… as a background. You’ll be credited for the artwork, of course. What did it mean again?”

“It’s my fucking name, you dickhead”, Grantaire replies and for a second he thinks Enjolras is taken aback, but that was probably nothing but wishful thinking.

“Yeah, they won’t know that”, he answers unfazed. “The colour is good, though, and R, that goes perfectly with the theme…” 

Grantaire leaves his sketch, just grabs a pack of tobacco and heads for the balcony. He feels like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, and that just makes him angrier, he can barely roll a cigarette because his hands are shaking and when he finds that someone has been burning fucking documents in his ashtray and left it filled to the rim he just snaps. 

He kicks the ashtray off the balustrade and it shatters to pieces in the yard below. A cat screams angrily and the usual murmur of voices is momentarily disrupted in a stunned silence, but he doesn’t care. He can hardly storm out just in a t-shirt and boxers, and the self-proclaimed photo shooting crew is still occupying his room, so he grabs a pair of Enjolras’ sweatpants and a jumper, and leaves. 

It’s cold out, colder than he thought, but Grantaire starts running before he can bring himself to care and only stops when he is out of breath. The tickling in his wrists grew worse; it’s spreading to his elbows now, and up his arms, reaching for his heart. He feels the urge to shake it off, but he knows it’s not and outwardly thing like bugs or eczema, he balls his hands into fists and digs his fingernails into his flesh, and that brings some relief, momentarily. He feels the need to scream but he won’t, instead he mutters under his breath, shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. Fuck. He’s shaking now. He didn’t expect it to stay away for long, but he’d hoped to have run far enough to buy himself more time. Fuck, how he craves a drink. Just one glass of – anything, really, with enough alcohol in it to numb that fucking vibration that’s taken over his body, to silence that fucking voice in his head that tells him to scream his lungs out, to rip his hair, to draw blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Help, he thinks, I need help. But who’s there to call out to, and he left his phone in the flat and it’s getting dark and actually, upon looking around, he doesn’t even know where he is. And somehow, that only makes him angrier at Enjolras for being such a fucking self-obsessed prick, and somehow, upon realizing this, his anger slowly subsides. As if he found the plug and pulled it out, he’s suddenly almost calm and shivers only from the cold. 

He’s still lost and cold and, oh god yes, pissed, but at least he can breathe. And he breathes. And maybe he cries. But most of all, he prays for Enjolras and the others to be gone when he comes home.

***

And of course they don’t talk about it. Enjolras doesn’t apologise, hell, he probably doesn’t even see where he went wrong. And it’s not like Grantaire would change much, he keeps to himself, rinses his own cups after coffee, does his amount of hoovering. Passive-aggressive is not his style.

They were gone when Grantaire came back, frozen to the bone, and his room looked untouched, and Enjolras didn’t even say anything when Grantaire returned his clothes the next day, neatly folded. And apart from a nasty cold, Grantaire is fine, really, and a new ashtray turned up on the balcony out of nowhere. Grantaire suspects that maybe that’s Enjolras’ way of saying he’s sorry, but he’s not quite sure, and also, he’s really not ready to accept it.

But then Jehan brings along the city gazette to one of their coffee breaks and Grantaire finds his artwork on the cover – his impulsive self-bestowed vandalism, that is – albeit only in the background of a very pensive, enigmatic Enjolras. Begrudgingly, Grantaire has to admit that the photo is really quite good. Enjolras looks straight into the camera, chin lifted, wearing his red leather jacket, face unforgivingly lit by the flashlight, and he still manages to look mysterious. The headline reads “Rebel With A Cause”, and Grantaire can all too well imagine Enjolras brushing that off as a bit cheap, but secretly smiling smugly because, yeah, they got his reference. 

“Are you kidding me”, Jehan interrupts his train of thought, “that’s your flatmate?” Jehan grabs the magazine to take a closer look. “And that’s the photo they threw you out of your room for?”

Grantaire nods. “Looks like it was worth it. For them, that is.”

“No, but have you read the thing?” Jehan asks, flipping through the magazine to find the article.

Grantaire shakes his head. “Why, anything interesting?”

“It’s huge!” Jehan says, “And you do know that he’s kind of trying to overthrow the government, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for reading (or scrolling) all the way down to the bottom.
> 
> Second of all: I'm new to this. This is my first proper fic and the first time I published anything in English, so please, if you find any mistakes as far as grammar or content are concerned, or if I'm doing anything wrong, especially with ratings or trigger warnings, drop me a line. I'd be eternally grateful. (This is supposed to be in British English btw, but I get confused sometimes, so yeah.)
> 
> And thirdly: I'm just pretending to know a lot about France. For detailed (and historically accurate) information about the 2005 riots, consult wikipedia, that's what I did, mostly. I tried to be accurate here, but I needed to change some details because I'm a lazy writer and don't do my research (or plotting) in advance. There will be more about that in later chapters.
> 
> I'll upload the following chapters soon, they're almost finished, I'm just not quite done revising. Yay!


	2. The Friends

Grantaire comes home and finds Enjolras awake for a change, crouched over his laptop, classical music blaring from the speakers, avidly typing – a manifesto, probably. 

“We need to talk about this”, he says and slams the magazine at Enjolras’ desk. “First of all: Where the fuck is my credit and second of all, when were you going to tell me that our flat is the headquarters of a fucking revolution?”

“I didn’t think you’d care”, Enjolras answers, and that alone is enough to drive Grantaire up the wall, but at least he has the courtesy to turn down the music.

“You said you’d credit my artwork, and all I get is ‘When he’s not out on the street fighting for the poor and downtrodden, Enjolras, 24, retreats to his shared apartment in Montmartre’. Seriously?” Grantaire promised Jehan to deal with this calmly, but he finds that promise hard to uphold, now that he’s facing Enjolras, who’s unimpressed, at best.

“Listen, Grantaire, I really got a lot on my plate today. Can we do this later?”

“Later when you’re sleeping or later when you’re out on the street fighting for the poor and downtrodden?” Grantaire crosses his arms and gives Enjolras a defiant look. Let’s see how he wears his rebel leader posture when the opposition is not so easily smitten with him.

“Seriously, Grantaire, you want to do this now?” Enjolras wheels around on his chair, facing his flatmate. “I’ll break it down for you: two kids are dead because the police can’t control their trigger fingers. Thousands are out on the streets fighting, don’t you see, they’re changing things. And you’re seriously asking why I take a stand?”

So that’s what this is about. Grantaire remembers the images from the news now, hooded kids and blazing flames and ruins and ruins of charcoal black metal. “They’re burning cars”, he says. “What the hell does that change?”

Enjolras rubs his hands over his face, an exasperated sigh. “That’s basic stuff, Grantaire. Did you even read the article? I can’t believe I’m having this discussion with you, of all people.”

“What do you mean, me of all people?” Grantaire asks, sensing the edge of an insult in Enjolras’ voice, and also to cover up the fact that Enjolras is right. He didn’t actually read the whole thing.

“You cuddle up in your blankets, hide yourself away in your room with, I don’t know, So You Think You Can Dance, hell, you don’t even watch the news –“

“I watch the news”, Grantaire says, sounding more insulted than he intended to.

“Yeah, when they happen to be on while you’re making yourself a coffee! You have no idea what’s going on out there. Have you ever been to the banlieues? It’s crammed there, there’s no room, let alone jobs or health care or anything. Can you even imagine growing up without any perspective at all? All it needed was a spark, and the kids are out fighting in the streets, and rightfully so. They deserve to be heard, and we’re giving them a voice. And yeah, now they’re burning cars. But that’s the wake-up call the fucking bourgeoisie needs.” During his speech, Enjolras goes full rebel leader mode, he grows in his chair, almost, and in his eyes there’s a shimmer of insane passion.

“Whoa, okay”, Grantaire says, backing away. “Don’t spend all your bullets on me. You know I don’t care.” He looks at Enjolras, frowning. “So that’s what you’re up to at night? Blowing up private property?”

“Don’t be so stupid, Grantaire”, Enjolras snaps back, probably, hopefully, annoyed by Grantaire’s unfazed reaction. Oh how Grantaire wishes he could irritate Enjolras right out of his fucking righteous skin. Because of course he’s right, yeah, there are problems. Only Grantaire’s sure Enjolras never had to suffer any of them himself. 

“That’s the boys from the banlieues, they’re running wild. They’ve got nothing to lose. We’re trying to rally the forces to affect some real change. Petitions, protest marches. The energy is right there where we need it. All we need to do is to conduct it. We need to give them a voice; we need to teach them to talk. And then things will change.”

“If you think so”, Grantaire says, and shrugs. 

“I do think so.” Hell, he’s good at that, Enjolras. Grantaire can feel the energy surrounding him like… like a glow, a heat that spreads and takes over. And the look he’s giving him, it’s sincere, almost as if he really wanted him to care. Impressive. If only he wasn’t so fucking full of it.

“You should come to the meetings some time!” Enjolras shouts after him when Grantaire leaves. “We need all the help we can get.”

“Fat lot of help I’d be”, Grantaire mutters under his breath and pulls his bedroom door shut behind him.

***

Yet somehow, the following night, Grantaire finds himself in Enjolras’ room again, in a circle of Les Amis, as they call themselves, Enjolras’ pack of skinny, well-dressed students. Enjolras swiftly introduces him as “Grantaire, the flatmate”, and leaves it to him to find out all the others’ names. There is Combeferre, who he already knows, and a nice fellow called Courfeyrac, who introduces himself, and then there’s a Marius, who doesn’t seem to be leaving Enjolras’ side. Grantaire quietly takes a seat between the nameless fifteen or twenty remaining students, who, he reckons, are as unimportant to the whole enterprise as he is. He feels uneasy at best. The discussion’s way ahead of his knowledge of the matter. But apparently he’s not the only one with that problem. There seems to be a bunch of new followers and Grantaire suspects that the article – or that photo of Enjolras – has got something to do with that.

“They are yet hesitant to accept our help. Since the silent march last week, we’ve been unable to contact the respective leaders of the rebellious groups. They’re either in hiding or plainly denying any offer of help or support we have made so far”, Combeferre recites off a sheet of paper he’s holding.

“Mainly in the banlieues, but also spreading to the city of Paris, there have been more attacks on civilians, mobs of hooded teenagers, mostly of African or Arabian origin, burning cars and destroying property, all in the aftermath of two boys, fifteen and seventeen, dying on the run from the police on the 27th. The government still seems to be totally at loss, there has been no official statement, and no action was taken except stocking up police forces in the respective areas. Meanwhile, the interior minister has been quoted calling the rioters ‘scum’.”

There’s an audible gasp at that from the students. “Fuck Sarkozy”, one of them says. “They should torch him right out of cabinet.”

“Stop”, Enjolras interrupts him, and as soon as he speaks up, all murmur in the room dies down. “We need to be careful with things like that. While I agree with your sentiments wholeheartedly”, there’s a sound of approval from the students, “I think we’re on the right path taking a less… passionate approach to this. I say we organize another peaceful march this weekend and talks in the youth centres in the banlieues. We need to get in touch with the rioters, we need to understand their causes, their anger, so we can vocalise it for a broader public.”

“But Combeferre just said they didn’t want to talk”, Grantaire pipes up. Enjolras’ eyes find him at the back of the room, and his are not the only ones. He suddenly feels the gaze of every other student, and is already sorry to have said anything. 

“What do you suggest, Grantaire?”, Enjolras asks, and there is just a trace of condescendence in his voice.

“I don’t know, I’m not a general”, Grantaire says. 

Enjolras sighs. “Do you have anything productive to add to the discussion?”

“I was just wondering”, Grantaire says. “Combeferre said they were mostly immigrants from Africa?” 

Combeferre nods. “First and second generation, mostly from North Africa, Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco.” 

“Then maybe”, Grantaire says, trying to ignore the others, speaking only to Enjolras, “they don’t want the help of a privileged skinny white boy. Have you ever thought about that?”

From where he’s sitting, he can see half the students straightening their backs and clenching their teeth, and he suspects he found the direction they usually get winged from.

“Privilege, as you call it”, Enjolras answers, voice cool and steady, but, to Grantaire’s grim delight, not entirely untouched by his remark, “allows us to reach an audience the boys on the streets never could. We need their anger to get people to listen, and we’re doing them a favour. We’re securing the health care and education and job prospects they want so badly, but will never get by only burning cars. They get us the attention we need.”

“So you’re using them, basically”, Grantaire says.

“I’m their advocate”, Enjolras answers.

“Same difference”, Grantaire mutters under his breath. The tension in the room is now palpable. 

“Say, Enjolras”, Grantaire says, a bit louder this time. “What do you earn your living by?” The tension cracks just the tiniest bit, there is a hushed whisper flying through the room, Enjolras narrows his eyes to slits – Grantaire can tell he hates him right now – and Combeferre grabs Grantaire’s elbow and whispers “Step it down a bit, friend, okay?”, into his ear.

But Enjolras needs just a second to compose himself. “It’s not a secret”, and he eyes everybody in the room carefully, before he returns his gaze to Grantaire, “that I live on my father’s income. I accept his financial aid. But you all know that I’m only taking the bare minimum for myself. This whole campaign is run by the money he administers to me. I could live a splendid life with it, but I choose not to, because there are greater goals to achieve with it. And I couldn’t look a single one of you in the eye if I didn’t use it for that purpose.”

There’s a round of applause and some encouraging words. This is not the first time he’s held that speech, Grantaire’s sure, and he’s certain there’s a written version of it somewhere in one of Enjolras’ drawers, to pull out in emergencies. He snorts and receives an evil look from Marius.

“What are you even doing here if you can’t take any of it seriously?” he asks.

“Giving a voice to the opposition”, Grantaire replies, no less snarky. 

“Grantaire…”, Combeferre says. “Give it a break.”

Grantaire looks at him, and to Enjolras, and maybe it’s the bad lighting, but Enjolras looks exhausted. Not annoyed, not angry, just tired. It’s not enough to make Grantaire feel sorry, but it’s enough to make him shut up for now, while the others go on discussing their business. Money and petitions and interviews with members of parliament, and the blog, and more money, and the silent walk, and the memorial service, it’s all the same to Grantaire. 

***

They leave the flat around midnight, when the discussion has grown heated, and five or ten more students appeared and the flat is so crammed, Grantaire can’t even fight his way back to his room. So Combeferre guides them all out and down the stairs and to the nearest bar. The meeting is supposed to go on there, but when everybody has got their drinks and seats, most of the curious new members are gone and the urgency of the discussion has somewhat faded. 

Grantaire finds himself at the bar with Courfeyrac, while the others surrounding Combeferre have taken up the sofa in in the back. Only Enjolras and Marius have occupied a scarcely lit table at the window and still seem to be discussing battle plans over a rugged piece of paper. 

Grantaire’s not sure about the beer at first, but then, he really needs to calm down right now and Courfeyrac is probably closest to what they’d call safe company. He has that slightly unsettling way of being very honest very quickly and Grantaire can’t help but be grateful for that. At least he’s not stuck with some pretentious douchebag who’d pretend to care for his art, just for the sake of a topic.

“So you didn’t really like it, did you”, Courfeyrac asks.

“The meeting?” Grantaire takes a swing of his beer and laughs and shakes his head. “I just don’t get it.”

“Stick around and you will, sooner or later”, Courfeyrac says. “Everyone does. It’s catching.”

“It’s all just about him, basically, isn’t it?”, Grantaire asks, nodding towards Enjolras, who’s crouched over his paper with Marius, their foreheads almost touching.

Courfeyrac nods. “Basically, yes. I mean, look at him. He’s born for this. He started the whole thing. And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. And Marius wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t. So yeah, he’s the beginning and the end. But he’s got a point, don’t you think?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t know. I think he’s kind of delusional.”

“Aren’t we all?” Courfeyrac answers, smiling.

Grantaire shrugs again. “Until recently I thought he was just a guy with a really odd sleep pattern. And then he turned out to be a pain in the ass. But that’s only been last week, so…”  
“Don’t be too harsh on him, Grantaire.” Courfeyrac leans in to him. “He’s trying really hard. I think he’s bitten off a bit more than he can chew with this one, but he’ll manage. We all will. This is going somewhere.”

“Is it?” Grantaire asks and empties his beer in one swing. 

Courfeyrac grins into his bottle. “He said you were quite the sceptic. That’s why he likes you around.”

“Are you kidding me?” Grantaire says, ordering a fresh beer with a gesture to the barkeeper. “He hates me around.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He’d never say, sure. But I think if he really hated you, he would’ve kicked you out already. That really wouldn’t be that big of a deal for him.”

“Marius should move in with him”, Grantaire says, glancing over to the table where the two of them are still deep in discussion, now sharing a bottle of wine. “They’d be blissfully happy.”

“Yeah, they’ve got a history, the two of them”, Courfeyrac says.

“What?” Grantaire looks up from his beer in surprise and takes a closer look. “Like, romantically?”

Courfeyrac laughs. “I don’t know. They went to school together or something. But Marius is definitely straight. He’s my flatmate, I should know. And Enjolras…” his gaze drifts off and he looks as if he just remembered something very amusing. “Enjolras wouldn’t be able to recognise sexual advances if you stripped down in front of him waving a sign.” 

“Please tell me that happened”, Grantaire says, joining Courfeyrac’s fit of laughter.

“Let’s say it almost happened”, Courfeyrac says, still laughing. “Involving one of the two things… His fans are very enthusiastic. Seriously, you should’ve seen his face.”

Grantaire’s all flushed from laughing and maybe it’s the alcohol, too, and for the first time in weeks he doesn’t feel cold. They join the others in the back, they drink and laugh and all of them turn out a lot less self-righteous and stuck-up than Grantaire imagined them to be. In fact, they are alright. And he’s alright, too. They spend the night until dawn laughing and drinking and forgetting why they came here in the first place. And the later it gets, the quieter he becomes, with the alcohol, until he’s just in the corner, watching the others, bathing in their light and the sound of their voices, feeling utterly safe and warm and protected. Until there’s a hand on his shoulder, a cool and sober hand that belongs to their leader, who reminds him it’s time to go home.

***

The air is almost freezing outside, but Grantaire’s warm. He’s conscious, but barely. Just enough to feel Enjolras under him, supporting the weight his numb legs won’t. He leans on him when Enjolras stops at the door to search his pockets for the keys. For some reason, the stairs aren’t quite as steep when he’s sober, and not nearly as shaky.

“Will you find your own bedroom?” Enjolras asks, and, just to make sure, shoves Grantaire through the door. He comes back with a glass of water and hands it to Grantaire, who’s sitting on the edge of his bed, swaying slightly. “Drink. You’ll thank me tomorrow.” Grantaire takes the glass and, holding it in both hands, empties it to the bottom.

“Enjolras”, Grantaire says, his tongue stumbling over the edges of the name. “I think I’m wasted.” He looks at him with watery blue eyes, and the ghost of a frown. “I’m really not very good at this, am I? Revolution, I mean.”

“You’re such a child, Grantaire”, Enjolras says, tugging him into bed, shoes and all. After a second of hesitation, he drapes the second blanket over him as well.

“I’m sorry” Grantaire mumbles, nothing more than a tuft of black hair peeking out from underneath his blankets.

Enjolras closes the door from the outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, yay!
> 
> It's more relevant in this chapter, so I'll say it again: I don't actually know anything about France. I tried to be as accurate as possible based on the wikipedia entry and timeline of the 2005 riots, but I also adjusted some of the facts for the sake of the story. So please don't quote me in your essays or something (you also shouldn't quote wikipedia, but that's another point entirely).
> 
> Interesting things I learned about France:  
> banlieue: literally means "suburb", but in this context refers only to the suburbs of Paris. Which are huge.  
> Sarkozy: interior minister in 2005, he went on to become President later, as you might now. Also he was a huge dick about the rioters and mostly used the crisis as a base for his presidential campaign (so did de Villepin, but not quite as successfully, apparently).  
> de Villepin: Prime Minister at the time  
> Chirac: President of France.
> 
> Thanks for reading and your lovely comments on the first chapter! :) The third chapter will follow right up.


	3. The Revolution

In the course of the next week, Grantaire becomes their shadow. Not because he’d have grown to care for the cause, as Courfeyrac predicted, but because he begins to crave the feeling he had that night, the feeling of being with friends again, part of something bigger, and because he allows himself to drink when he’s with them. He’s not a lonely alcoholic anymore. Just an alcoholic. And that is something he can justify. 

Les Amis meet up every other night in the bar, Le Musain, and when they’re not there, there’s always a flock of them in the flat. Grantaire thrives, though it looks the opposite, his eyes glazed over either by alcohol or sleep-deprivation, deep purple shadows around them, skin pale, hair greasy. But they all look like that now, they have their priorities set. They hardly sleep, and when they do, they do it feverishly, as if to intently charge up their batteries, and when there’s no time for that, coffee will do. Regardless, Grantaire has never felt so alive.

Enjolras seems to only be existing on TV, or on stages or in front of any kind of audience, arguing the conservative opposition into the ground, and the tabloids love him, because cameras love him and, even though he’d never admit it – he’d rather kill himself than say they’re more than a necessary evil – he loves the cameras.  
“It’s not the rioters’ fault”, he preaches into every lens directed his way, “it’s the system that’s rotten to the core. The leaders of this country have accepted immigrants in a seemingly wide-hearted gesture, but now that they’re here, and they have built a home, a family, they won’t provide for them!” And of course, it’s not only about justice, it’s about action. Chirac must go, Sarkozy must go, de Villepin must go, everything must change, everything must be torn down and built brand new from the ruins. The rioters only seem to agree on the tearing down part. 

They walk for a peaceful resolution, for change, for the rioters, in Clichy-sous-Bois, Montfermeil, Aulnay, and burned ruins seam their path. 

“This is neither provocation nor demonstration of force”, Enjolras’ voice blares through the speakers, “but a sign of solidarity with the rioters. You are not fighting alone! We can find the means for change, together!” But the crowd is white, and in the banlieues the cars continue burning, and they’re burning in Lyon, Toulouse and Marseille now, too, and still, none of this seems to be happening under Enjolras’ lead. Grantaire can sense Enjolras’ restlessness, his discontent with the situation, but there’s hardly anything he can do about it. He can see why the rioters light fires in the night, instead of walking peacefully in bright daylight.

***

On the train home from Aulnay is the first time he sees Enjolras defeated.  
“They won’t listen to us”, he says, fingers tapping restlessly on any surface they can find, “neither of them. The politicians are too caught up with their own campaigns, and the rioters are blinded and deafened by fire and gunshots.” 

“Poetic”, Grantaire says. “You should put that on your blog.” They are alone; the others have taken an earlier train. Enjolras stayed behind, he was determined to talk to the right-wing mayor who joined the walk, but there was no way of breaking through the wall of security surrounding him. “The people love you, though”, Grantaire says, in a feeble attempt at pep-talk. 

“The middle class loves me. I’m their walking talking conscience. As long as I’m there, they can sleep peacefully. They’re scared shitless. All of them”, Enjolras says. “That’s no way to start a revolution.”

Grantaire silently stares out of the window, out into the darkening suburbs of Paris. He wonders if Enjolras means the people or the rioters or the politicians or their friends, but does it really matter? He’s probably right about all of them. Once or twice, he thinks he spots the blazing light of a fire in the streets, but the train moves too fast, and before he can tell, it is gone. 

“Did you know Sarkozy met up with de Villepin today? In a meeting of national urgency. They postponed their travel plans for that”, Enjolras says. “Nobody knows what they talked about – probably more pressing matters than the uprisings, taxes and stuff.”

“You think they talked?”, Grantaire says. “They probably just compared the length of their cocks and blamed it on the measuring tape.”

Grantaire has to pretend to see the shadow of a smile on Enjolras’ face. This is depressing.

“And Chirac didn’t even bother to make a statement. And someone on the radio called it ‘organized crime against the Republic’.” Enjolras lets go of an exasperated sigh. “Nothing’s organized around here. And if anything, the rioters are destroying themselves. I just wish there was anything I could do to make them understand…”

“Give it a break”, Grantaire says, and it sounds harsh, so he adds, “Please. Just for tonight.”

Enjolras looks at him, for the first time today; gives him this kind of scrutinising, analytical look. “You’re quite sober today”, he says, stating the obvious.

“Haven’t had the chance yet”, Grantaire says, with a faint smile. “And who wouldn’t have wanted to be sober today, with all the excitement!”

They walked in circles for hours, their legs are taking their toll, and their voices are sore from shouting paroles, and to be honest, Grantaire would have loved to be drunk. But that’s not something Enjolras needs to know.

“You thought it was exciting?” Enjolras says, raising one eyebrow incredulously.

“Jehan and you should start another uprising for the sarcasm-impaired”, Grantaire says. 

“Always so funny”, Enjolras says, not remotely amused, or maybe just too tired to let it show. “You get why this was important, though, even if it was boring?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m not going to talk politics with you tonight, friend. I’m tired and sober and my legs hurt and I’ve been shouting paroles all day. There’s only so much a man can take.”

And, much to his surprise, Enjolras leaves it be. He leans his head against the window, closes his eyes, and his fingers finally rest. Grantaire is once more convinced that Enjolras is unable to talk about anything but the cause, and the default alternative is sleep. What a depressing life he must lead. But then, Grantaire knows the life he leads. And although it’s pretty much a one-track life, it’s full of purpose and meaning and perspective. 

***

The night’s clear and cold; it’s only a short walk from the Metro station to their flat. Grantaire has his coat pulled tightly around himself, his arms tucked in, he’s freezing. Enjolras stumbles a few feet behind him, awake now, but drowsy and a bit sulky since Grantaire woke him at Gare du Nord with a gentle tuck to his sleeve. 

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the extensive news-watching he’s been doing in the past week, in retrospect, Grantaire can’t tell. He only knows that, when they turn the corner, it needs a long moment for him to register that they are not still in the banlieues. The street is suddenly light with fire. It takes long, too long for Grantaire to grab Enjolras’ hand and duck, pull him into a house entrance, or anywhere safe, the shouting has already started, the stones are flying, and Grantaire, protecting his head with one hand and pulling Enjolras with him with the other, looking for shelter, but blinded by the flames, can feel the other being hit, and going limp, and stumbling and falling.  
He doesn’t even think, he just throws himself across him, there are screams in his throat that he didn’t knowingly put there, but they pour out, NO, STOP, PLEASE. PLEASE. STOP.  
He can’t tell if it’s police or rioters that threw the stones, the flames are too bright in his eyes. But since there is no reaction to two men going down, he suspects it to be rioters. Surely the police wouldn’t leave them there like that – but then again, there’s nothing to be sure of these days. The voices subside and then there’s only the fire and silence and the biting smell of gasoline and smoke. 

Grantaire gets up on his knees, pulling Enjolras’ head in his lap. He’s been hit, there’s blood mingling with his hair. But it’s not that much; surely, it’s not too much? And he’s conscious.

“Enjolras, look at me”, Grantaire says, and Enjolras’ eyes find his, albeit slowly and unfocused. 

“Get me out of here”, he says. Just that. And then, “Please.”

Grantaire is already grabbing his hand, and clasps it tightly. “It’s okay. It’s alright. I’m here.” And all along, while he lifts Enjolras to his feet and drags his arm around his neck, holding him upright, there’s that flow of strange, comforting words from his mouth that he can’t explain or stop. 

“Shut up, Grantaire”, Enjolras says. And Grantaire shuts up, and begins to count to a hundred silently, because he needs to keep breathing, and thinking.

They somehow make it up to the flat, and Grantaire is dimly reminded of when Enjolras carried him up there in a very drunk state, although, to be honest, Grantaire doesn’t really remember it all that clearly. Grantaire puts Enjolras on a kitchen chair and without even thinking about it grabs the bottle of liquor from underneath the sink.

“Take a sip”, he tells Enjolras. “Just a sip.” And after Enjolras is done, he takes a good swing of the stuff himself. “Now, first aid.”

Grantaire patches Enjolras up to the best of his abilities. It’s a small cut just underneath the hairline over the right eye, and when he’s washed the blood off, it doesn’t actually look that bad. It was bad, though. Very, very bad.

“Give me some more of that”, Enjolras says, and Grantaire hands him the bottle. “It’s supposed to help, right?” When Enjolras tries to open the cap, Grantaire notices that his hands are shaking.

“You need rest, Enjolras. And probably a doctor”, he says.

“Fuck it, I need a drink”, Enjolras answers, and it sounds so unlike him, Grantaire can’t help but laugh. The alcohol has definitely done its job for Grantaire, the shock and anxiety have subsided to a blunt, dark feeling deep down in his stomach, deep enough for him to keep it down for a while.

“I’m not an expert, but I think you have a concussion. And you’re probably in shock, too”, Grantaire says.

Enjolras takes the bottle and drinks, deep gulps of the stuff. “Are you sure…”, Grantaire begins, but then he reminds himself that he’s really not the one to judge. And after all, Enjolras takes it better than he ever would, almost gracefully. No slurred speech, no whining, no fuck-the-world-and-everything-attached-to-it – he just puts himself to bed and sleeps for almost fifteen hours.

***

Grantaire tries to sleep a bit, too, but his covers won’t keep warm, and he worries. Every noise he hears connects to the rioters, there are uncommonly many sirens tonight, and people shouting in the streets, and these cracks, is that them coming up the stairs? He gets up eventually, more exhausted than when he went to bed, and checks on Enjolras, only to find him in his usual sleeping position, sprawled out and lost from the world. Grantaire catches himself walking past his open bedroom door more often than necessary, only checking. Just making sure he’s still sleeping, still breathing. Still there, and safe. 

His wrists are itching and his skin is crawling and he feels anxiety is getting hold of him again, probably just in the aftermath of the shock, but it’s stronger this time, too strong to be ignored. There’s still half a bottle of liquor left. 

Grantaire knows it’s not only about him this time. He knows because there’s that black feeling pooling deep down his stomach and when he pokes it with a stick it wells up and he feels Enjolras’ grip going limp in his hand again. Stupid, childish, delusional revolutionary, thinking himself invincible, but stones find their targets and skin tears so easily. And yet he sleeps like a child, on his back, hands curled to fists, but his neck, tender skin, unguarded. It drives Grantaire so unbearably mad. What if they came in here while he, Grantaire, was out or sleeping or drunk, what if they found him there, what if they came with guns or knives or just bare hands? Hands alone can do so much damage. But Enjolras wouldn’t know that.

***

Enjolras finds him in his room, curled to a ball under his blankets, but wide awake.

“Are you alright?”, he asks, and Grantaire doesn’t answer, just silently waits for him to leave. It’s not like he doesn’t want to talk to Enjolras, he does, but he’s afraid that when he starts, he’s going to be honest, and what good would that do for anybody. He hears footsteps, and then he can feel the mattress sinking when Enjolras sits on the edge of his bed.

“I found the bottle, I didn’t think I drank that much last night”, he says.

“You didn’t.” Grantaire’s voice comes muffled from underneath the heap of blankets.

“You need to be careful with that, Grantaire”, Enjolras says, and there’s no condescension in his voice for a change. He sounds worried. 

“You’re one to talk”, Grantaire says, sticking his head out to look at him, but actually, Enjolras looks better than he has in weeks, rested and rosy, apart from a bruise forming on his face where the stone hit, and it kind of suits him. How the fuck does he do that, Grantaire thinks, but then, life’s not fair, and it seems to have bestowed many unnecessary advantages upon Enjolras. And it’s not like he wouldn’t be using them for the greater good.

“What are you even doing there, you’re not sleeping, are you?”, Enjolras asks, tugging at the top blanket. That patronising edge has sneaked its way into his voice again. And for a sweet minute Grantaire had thought he genuinely cared.

“If I was, I’d hardly be talking to you, would I?”, Grantaire snaps back. “I’m cold, that’s what.”

“Sorry”, Enjolras says, dragging the word unnecessarily, clearly offended by Grantaire’s harsh reaction, and his weight leaves the edge of Grantaire’s mattress. “Just stay clear of the booze, okay. I need you sober.” And he leaves.

“You’re not the boss of me”, Grantaire mutters, not loud enough for Enjolras to actually hear it, but he can hear Enjolras chuckling in the hallway, so impeccable hearing ability is apparently another thing his flatmate’s been unnecessarily blessed with. Grantaire buries his face in his pillows with an exasperated sigh. Next door, Enjolras puts on Beethoven, which means he’s writing for the cause. And also he’s up and breathing and safe. And while the 5th is blaring through the wall, Grantaire eventually, finally, drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....aaand the third one!
> 
> The notes of chapter 1 and 2 still apply - be careful with the "historical facts" and enjoy reading!
> 
> Chapter 4 is almost finished and will be going up in a few days, when I'm back from my vacation. Please don't go away, it's definitely coming, and right now I'm really pleased with how it's turning out.


	4. Enjolras

It gets worse. Grantaire pops out for groceries, because they are out of absolutely everything – one tends to forget the basics when fighting for the greater good – and there are the ruins. Burnt out cars and trash cans and debris and smashed windows, surreal in broad daylight. The rioters have marked their way to the city, and Grantaire realises that while each on their own might be a reasonable human being, together they are a force of nature. It sends shivers down his spine, but of course, if anyone would try and argue with a hurricane, it would be Enjolras. Enjolras locks himself up in his room, typing away furiously. Grantaire doesn’t know why, or what he works on, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the details; he doesn’t care about the cause. When he sees Enjolras crouched over, sleep-deprived, mad in more than one sense, and, rarely, early in the mornings, when he’s worn thin by sleepless nights, hopeless, that’s when he cares. But Enjolras hardly ever looks at him now.

There has been a death. Grantaire heard it on the news. They bludgeoned a civilian, an old man. Enjolras is tense about it, Grantaire can see why. There’s no way even he can argue the death of a man into something other than the rioter’s fault. Enjolras clenches his jaw and wears a new, stern look on his face.

Grantaire hasn’t told Enjolras, but there have been threats. The government doesn’t like him much, but the rioters have grown to hate him, the golden angelic figure trying so hard to become the symbol for their struggle. Grantaire really can’t blame them. Even the press have started to catch up on that, questioning his motives. Enjolras is not supposed to go out until further notice; Combferre has practically put him under house arrest. Or rather, he told Grantaire to not tell Enjolras – but to keep him from leaving the flat at all cost. Grantaire is sure Enjolras knows.  
He’s really lucky Enjolras isn’t even trying to leave, because, let’s be honest here, he’d never be able to make Enjolras stay if he really wanted out. And then, Enjolras’ catatonic state worries Grantaire more than anything, because like a flame put under a bell jar, his light is fading, and it’s fading fast. And that’s not how it’s supposed to work, Enjolras is not supposed to fade. Enjolras is supposed to shine bright, a beacon of hope – Grantaire cringes at the thought of that, it sounds like something Enjolras would say about himself – and he catches himself wondering who Enjolras is supposed to be a beacon for, now that the rioters have made their hatred of him known.

The others drop by, taking turns making coffee, but they never stay long. They’re not exactly thrilling company to keep these days, Grantaire and Enjolras, and with the death threats, the initiative’s on hold. Chirac proclaims national state of emergency, and there are less fires, and more important news. And still, Enjolras won’t leave his room, and there’s always Beethoven’s 5th. 

“I don’t know how you can stand it”, Courfeyrac says. “He’d have me up the walls with that in a day. Seriously, if you need a place to crash for a night or two, Marius and I always have room for one more.”

Grantaire shrugs. “You get used to it.”

Courfeyrac gives him a scrutinising look. “He’s alright, isn’t he? Does he talk to you?”

“Who? Enjolras?”, Grantaire asks, almost amused, “Does he ever?” 

“Fair point”, Courfeyrac says. “I just thought you’d know, because you’re around.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t think he talks anymore. He’s probably given up on it. He’s gone on to passive-aggressively blaring classical music as means of communication. Not that he ever gained anything by communicating with me.” He can’t help but feel a little bitter about it. His mood is changing hourly now, between incredibly pissed at his flatmate for going batshit and just letting them – him – hang like that, and exceedingly worried. Right now he’s in between, on the road headed to “pissed”. 

“You wouldn’t mind to get me some booze, would you?”, he asks Courfeyrac. Les Amis do most of their groceries now, since Enjolras can’t leave the flat and Grantaire’s out of a job and painfully broke – it’s just one of those things that comes with babysitting a delusional revolutionary 24/7. And strangely – luckily, but strangely – without even asking for permission, Enjolras pays his bills. He calls it “covering expenses”. But a decent bottle is not part of these expenses, it seems.

“Sure thing”, Courfeyrac says, and leaves, and is probably glad to have gotten away so easily. Grantaire has formerly unknown amounts of time at his hands, and he’s mad a lot, and he enjoys to argue. He thinks too much, and he cares too much, and way too much of both of it about Enjolras. He misses his job, and the easy life it meant. Jehan called once or twice and ended up showing up at the meetings, joining the force. Grantaire feels guilty – sweet, innocent Jehan – but he doesn’t tell, because Jehan seems to be enjoying it, really. Good for him. Still, Grantaire isn’t taking any chances by visiting the Musain, and he’s also not leaving Enjolras in the flat on his own.

***

They are very polite about arresting Enjolras. It’s an ungodly hour, but neither of them is sleeping anyways, and there are no sirens, no guns, no hand-cuffs, and they even have the courtesy to let Enjolras get dressed before they ask him to follow them to the car. Enjolras, out of his room for the first time in, Grantaire thinks, about 48 hours, looks like a mess, unshaved, pale, but his eyes are fixed on Grantaire’s face with that sincere look in them that gets him everywhere, when he gives him two words, only two, as if they were the most important thing to remember in a moment like that.

“Don’t. Worry.” And then he’s gone, and Grantaire stays behind. 

There should be panic, Grantaire thinks, but mostly, there are a lot of phone calls. Apparently there were a few arrests, but they didn’t take Combeferre, and Courfeyrac doesn’t answer his phone, but Marius says that doesn’t mean much, he’s probably just asleep somewhere. They meet up at the flat, in an emergency meeting. 

“We can’t afford any mistakes now”, Combeferre says, who has taken charge for the time being. “We need to wait for word from Enjolras, before we take any action. If anyone knows more than I do about what he was planning, now would be a good time to say.”

But apparently, Enjolras did this on his own, and there’s no standard procedure for that. Combferre decides to not do anything until they know more. And so they take their phones out and wait, and Grantaire finds himself caring again, much to his own surprise, and much more than he ever thought he would.

It’s almost noon when, finally, it’s Grantaire’s phone that rings. With numb, shaking fingers he picks it up and there’s Enjolras’ voice at the other end of the line.

“Grantaire?”

“Yes.” 

“Listen, they’re going to question me here for a bit. Don’t worry, everybody’s being very nice”, he says, sounding infuriatingly cheerful. 

“Why”, is all Grantaire gets out, while the others crouch around him, so quiet and tense you could hear a needle drop.

“The blog. They didn’t really like my last article. The official offence is ‘provocation of violence’, but give me an hour and I’ll have them down to ‘solidarity for justified violence’ and that, in the Republic of France, is not a crime. Anyways, they can’t keep me here for more than 48 hours. Make sure the kettle’s boiled when I come home. And tell the press.”

“Enjolras, wait…” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras interrupts him.

“Are you worrying, Grantaire?”

“No, I –”, Grantaire says, although it’s not quite true.

“Good. Keep it up.” And then, the line is dead. The others’ anxious stares rest on him as he puts the phone down. Suddenly, he feels the urge to laugh.

“He’s lost it”, Grantaire announces. “He’s finally lost it.” 

“What did he say?”, Combeferre asks.

Grantaire explains, and he’s done with that really quickly, because, as it is so often the case with him, Enjolras didn’t actually say anything helpful. And he sounded so fucking cheery about it, like he was on top of his game, finally. At least somebody is happy about this, Grantaire thinks bitterly. This is a fucking nightmare.

And suddenly, everybody’s busy, with the blog, or the comments, or the press, and when Combeferre has rung the right people, their phones won’t stop buzzing. Grantaire just drops his tired body on a kitchen chair and watches the madness.

They’re ecstatic. “This is exactly the kind of boost we needed, have you read the blog post? It’s absolutely flawless, razor-sharp, one hundred per cent Enjolras.” Grantaire feels sick. The coffee machine is running nonstop while he grows more and more restless. His fingers won’t stop twitching now.

“Does anyone have anything to drink?”, he asks, but everybody’s either on the phone or going through the mountains and mountains of blog comments that continue to pour from the printer. Grantaire gets up with an exasperated sigh and starts pacing up and down the room. His wrists have long started itching again, in fact, in the past few days, they haven’t really stopped.

“Sit down, Grantaire”, Combeferre snaps at him, “and relax, for heaven’s sake. You’re driving me up the wall with that.”

Grantaire looks at them, all of them, crouched over their papers, and he can’t believe they are so lost in the cause that they have actually stopped caring. “Has anyone of you ever been to jail?”, he asks. 

Some of them look up from their work and stare at him with confused faces, as if they were wondering what that has to do with anything.

“It fucking sucks”, Grantaire shouts into their empty faces, hands clasped to fists and trying very hard not to smash anything. “Do you have any idea what it does to people? And I don’t give a shit if this is just a fucking PR stunt, we need to get him out of there.”

Marius gives him a bewildered look. “There’s nothing we can do, Grantaire, it’s standard procedure. They take him in, they question him, and unless he has actually committed a murder we don’t know of, they’re going to let him go with a fine. We need to concentrate on the essentials now.”

“The future lawyer has spoken”, Combeferre says. He, too, looks at Grantaire as if he felt sorry. Sorry for the delusional drunk with all the wrong priorities. “And what’s it to you, Grantaire? It’s not like you usually care.” Their gazes rest on Grantaire, as if they’d expect him to answer, to explain. Hell, as if he could. If he could. He’d be so much wiser, about so many things.

“I need some air”, Grantaire says, grabs his coat, and leaves Marius, Combeferre and the others in the flat. It’s not like he trusts them, but there’s hardly anything left for them to break.

On his way down, he tries to call Courfeyrac again; he really needs someone to share a beer with right now. But the bastard still won’t pick up his phone. In custody or not, that’s no way to treat a friend, Grantaire thinks, and is close to slamming his fucking phone on the cobblestone street. Instead he buries his fists deeply in his coat pockets.

The air is crisp and cold, and when Grantaire makes his way down to the Seine, he thinks he can actually smell snow. It’s only just November, and his breath is hanging in the air like a puff of white smoke. Smoke. He pats his coat for cigarettes and finds a pack of tobacco and rolling paper in one of the pockets. Enjolras wouldn’t have him smoke in the flat, not even in his own room, and although he is a fucking dickhead most of the time, he’s also the landlord and he pays Grantaire’s rent now, so Grantaire begrudgingly obeys. With numb fingers, he rolls a cigarette and lights it up, and finally inhales the first proper lung full of smoke. It’s been far too long.

It steadies him. So does the cold air biting his nose and cheeks, and Paris. Paris, in all its stately glory, far from the banlieues, with its ornate lamp posts and cobblestone streets and boulevards, with the street vendors selling antique books, the beggars, the tourists, the fairy lights in the trees, far too early for Christmas, but pretty nonetheless. He loves Paris like an older sister who’s henpecked him for far too long and occasionally slips him sweets and fights for him like a lioness when things get rough. 

***

That night, after the others have gone and left their mess behind, he doesn’t sleep. Although he could, no-one’s blaring Beethoven next door. But then again, without Beethoven the flat is eerie and quiet. Grantaire tries not to think about Enjolras in a holding cell. He tries not to think of the bars and the bunk bed and the tiled walls and the smell, disinfectant and dust and damp spots on the ceiling. He needs to not think right now. Why is it such a big deal, it’s not like it’s a big difference with Enjolras not there, apart from the music. And that should be an improvement, but it doesn’t feel like one. Why does he care? Why does he care now, and not for the cause, only for him? When did that happen? Hell, it doesn’t feel like anything is right anymore, and Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut and balls his fists and tries to stop feeling because he’s just so fucking lost with this.

Early in the morning, before there’s even a shimmer of daylight in the sky, his phone goes off.

“I’m out”, Enjolras says at the other end of the line and Grantaire feels a wave of relief wash over him.

“Would you come pick me up?”, he asks, and Grantaire’s already on his way.

***

He takes a cab that costs a fucking fortune, but it’s Enjolras’ fortune after all, so it’s not really Grantaire’s problem. They had the first proper frost that night, and Grantaire has to watch his step as he walks from the parking lot towards the front gate of the police station.

Enjolras is the only person Grantaire knows that gets out of a night in jail looking better than he did before. Apparently, they let him take a shower in there. He looks ruffled, sure, but it suits him. He also looks impossibly tired, but puts on his rebel leader face, stern yet charming, when he emerges from the automatic doors and is swarmed by a small flock of reporters. Grantaire waits at the gate and watches the show. Les Amis really have outdone themselves, bringing at least some of the press to care again.

Finally, Enjolras walks towards him and Grantaire buries his hands deeper in his pockets. It’s only just dawning, just dark enough for the street lights to still be on. Enjolras exhales puffs of silver in their light.

“It’s good to see you”, he says, as he stops in front of Grantaire. They’re exactly one step apart.

“You too”, Grantaire says briskly and fights the urge to smile. Enjolras is way too smug for someone who just got out of jail. “Taxi’s waiting.”

“Oh, taxi?”, Enjolras asks, slightly amused. “Are we rich now?” And he falls into step next to Grantaire as they walk towards the waiting cab.

“It’s fucking five in the morning. And you’re paying”, Grantaire answers and watches Enjolras fold his long limbs into the backseat before he gets in himself.

“Oh okay.” A genuine smile has taken over Enjolras’ tired face now, a small one that rests just around the edges of his mouth. What the hell is he smiling about? Grantaire can’t possibly stuff his hands any deeper into his pockets, but he couldn’t take any responsibility for them now, he doesn’t know if they’d punch, or – he really can’t afford to think about the alternative, because part of him just wants to touch Enjolras’ face, just make sure he’s actually there, and actually smiling. Alive and well and not broken. He shrinks into his seat, Enjolras right next to him, and stares at the foggy spots his breath leaves on the window.

“So”, he says, as matter-of-factly as possible. “How was jail?”

“Unpleasant. But you’d know.” Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire doesn’t ask how he knows, but somehow, it helps. “And it was worth it, if that’s what you’re asking. The press is ecstatic.” 

“Great”, Grantaire says, and it sounds too much like the cynic he is. He’s right to be mad at Enjolras, he tells himself. And yet, he just wishes he could drop the cynic, just for a minute, just for this ride, and just, just be soft for a change.

“Give me your hand”, Enjolras says, all of a sudden.

“What?”, Grantaire asks. “Why?”

“Just give me your goddamn hand”, Enjolras says, softly, tugging on his sleeve. Grantaire cautiously untangles his left hand from his pocket and puts it into Enjolras’ right.

“What now”, he asks, still so fucking tense, rigid, waiting for judgement, instruction, whatever, and trying to stop his heart from beating frantically against his ribcage.

“Cold”, Enjolras says and clasps his long fingers around it. And then, nothing. Grantaire risks a look at him, and Enjolras just sits there, smiling smugly like a cat over a bird it just caught, and still holding Grantaire’s hand in his, and his is so impossibly warm.

“I fucking hate you”, Grantaire mutters, because he was determined to be cross with Enjolras for getting himself arrested, and on purpose, and not telling him, and for being such a fucking self-obsessed dickhead all the time, but he just can’t. And he feels himself relax, and the crisp cold leaves his bones. And he knows Enjolras heard him, because his smile just grows a little wider, and even more satisfied, and that’s really not helping.

“You’re really not very good at this”, Enjolras says, smirking. “Revolution”, he adds, when Grantaire gives him a questioning look. “And arguing. You don’t have your stand set.”

If this is Enjolras’ idea of flirting – and, frankly, at this point, Grantaire has no clue what else it’s supposed to be, the man is holding his hand, for heaven’s sake – he’s absolute rubbish at it. And somehow, that doesn’t make it easier to deal with him, it’s just so fucking endearing.

“And you can’t just claim people”, Grantaire argues weakly, because right now he’s the living proof that Enjolras definitely can. “And you can’t just go on sacrificing yourself. No-one’s asked you to pay for their sins; you’re not the fucking messiah”, and he goes on because fuck it, Enjolras is listening for once and he won’t let that opportunity pass, “and your cause sucks, because they hate you, and you’re just doing this for your own fucking satisfaction, and you’re using them, and it’s ridiculous and wrong and stupid. And you’re a fucking mess because you need that kind of attention and all you care about is your fucking image and your fucking hair and…” Grantaire is finally out of breath and Enjolras is looking at him, vaguely concerned, and still holding his hand.

“I told you not to worry”, Enjolras says quietly.

“Of all the things you could’ve told me”, Grantaire snaps at him, “that would’ve actually stopped me from worrying. Really Enjolras, don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t”, Enjolras says. “I promise.” And he sounds sincere. 

“Good”, Grantaire says, exhaling slowly.

“And also, I never claimed you”, Enjolras says, sounding almost offended by the idea, and Grantaire thinks that maybe he really doesn’t understand the kind of effect he has on people. 

And, taking a deep breath, Enjolras adds, “And I can see that you’re mad, and I’m sorry and you’re probably right about all of this, actually. But don’t take my word for it, I’m very very tired. Just please. Forgive me.” And he clasps Grantaire’s hand just a little tighter. And fuck it, Grantaire thinks. Fuck everything.

“Enjolras”, he says, and his breath catches only the tiniest bit in his throat, although he really can’t tell how he’s able to breathe at all, “if I don’t kiss you right now I might end up punching you.”

Enjolras’ face shifts into an expression of surprise Grantaire has never quite seen there before, mingled with joy, and the fearless leader actually looks like he is out of his depth. “Just say yes, idiot”, Grantaire says.

And Enjolras nods and the next thing Grantaire knows is his lips are on Enjolras’ and they are the sweetest, the best thing… the best thing… the best… and Grantaire can’t breathe or think and everything, for once, is perfect. 

“God, I’ve been starved for this”, Enjolras murmurs against Grantaire’s lips, while his other impossibly warm hand rests on the back of his neck, and with wonder in his voice, as if he only just realised, and Grantaire is glad he’s sitting in a cab, or else his legs might just give way. And all the way, Enjolras has not once let go of his hand.

Needless to say, they end up in bed. Hopelessly tangled and fast asleep, after Enjolras’ head just dropped against Grantaire’s neck while he followed him up the stairs, and he murmured “I don’t want to kill the moment, but I am really really tired right now” against Grantaire’s skin.

And Grantaire just smiled because honestly, he could fall asleep right there, leaning against Enjolras, because he hasn’t slept for 24 hours and there are no worries left to keep him awake, and Enjolras’ mattress is much better than his, and what’s the rush, they have all the time in the world now.

They sleep through morning and noon, through the official police statement declaring the riots ended and Chirac lifting state of emergency, and through 21 missed calls and text messages on Enjolras’ phone. They don’t even wake up when Combeferre lets himself into the flat to collect paperwork and leaves with the satisfied smile of someone who just barely refrains from saying “I told you so”.

***

Grantaire opens his eyes to a room flooded with evening sun, and Enjolras’ mess looks almost picturesque like that. He buries his nose in Enjolras’ hair again and marvels for a moment at the impossibility of the fact that Enjolras’ back is resting against his chest and the invincible revolutionary is curled up in his embrace, before he realises it’s been the buzzing of his phone that woke him from his blissful coma.

Careful not to wake Enjolras, Grantaire reaches for it across the mattress. Courf, the display says. He sighs. Courfeyrac must be worried sick right now. Grantaire is just about to take the call when a hand shoots up, grabs the phone from his and throws it across the room.

“No”, Enjolras says, voice gravelly with sleep. “No fuss.”

And Grantaire smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, this is it. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Thanks for your support and your feedback, you have no idea how much I appreciate it!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, there's now a sequel-y thingy I wrote for Christmas. It's called Something You Said, is quite fluffy and can be found in my works. xxx


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